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think twice about befriending him or his fellow members. I considered it perfectly normal having these scoundrels as allies, for my father had associated with the same type of people when he was younger. By sixteen, I was drinking, gambling, smoking and hanging out with a gang. I began stealing liquor from my parents’ store and would often share it with my friends.
    The first pistol I ever owned was pawned to me by a senior member of the same gang. I thought of the gun as an accessory more than anything else. I started bringing it to school in my schoolbag, along with a bottle of liquor, so that I could show my friends how bad and cheng (cool) I was. I began associating being a ‘good boy’ with boredom. Adolescence is undoubtedly a time for finding one’s sense of self and for rebelling against authority figures, but I took it too far. I started showing up at school drunk and reeking of alcohol. My attitude screamed loudly that I no longer cared about the place . . . or very much else for that matter. Teachers occasionally asked to see me after class to tentatively enquire after my well-being and whether I was experiencing problems at home. I revelled in the idea of being a problematic student—I wore this label as a badge of honour and loved being the centre of attention.
    I drank so heavily that my face became bloated and I started to neglect my appearance. There were times I was too drunk to care enough to shower. I began to skip school which caused my grades to nosedive, and I lied to my parents that my schoolwork was as good as always; sadly, they took my word for it.
    Wherever I went I was armed with a bottle of booze. Girls were attracted to the bad-boy image; but ironically, despite the charisma I projected, I was still too shy to make the first move, restrained by a combination of fear and pride. I was terrified I might perform poorly in bed revealing just how inexperienced I really was.
    Fortunately, by the time my alcohol addiction had become fully fledged, I simply didn’t have enough room in my life for other dependencies. My friends offered me a variety of drugs, which I always tried for fear of being called a sissy. I sampled marijuana and sniffed glue during my final year of secondary level. Marijuana made me smile and laugh a lot but that was about it; after its effects wore off, I never craved it as I did liquor. Sniffing glue didn’t really appeal to me either; I used amphetamines on and off but I found the effects torturous—they kept me awake half the night and I couldn’t sit still for longer than a few seconds at a time. Alcohol was therefore my first choice.
    I soon became known as one of the biggest troublemakers in my village. I would pick fights with anyone who gave me a disapproving glance. If someone crossed me, I spitefully ordered a member of my gang to slug him.
    My parents grew increasingly concerned. My mother despairingly said she wanted her old son back; conversely, my father advised me that if I was going to be bad then I might as well be terrible. He wanted me to pursue an honest path in life but, as he said, ‘You’re on the back of a tiger now. There’s no point in getting off or it’ll eat you.’ I think he meant that through my actions I’d already made a lot of enemies; it was too late now to do a U-turn and become a better person—there would be too many scores to settle.
    In retrospect, I underestimated my parents concerns.

CHAPTER 3
    I can only lament as I recall those times. When I ran out of money, I stealthily snuck into my home like a starved dog, seeking out booze and banknotes. I quickly set to work pocketing bottles of whisky and stuffing money into my jeans before making a speedy getaway on my accomplice’s motorbike. I avoided my parents and siblings, all of whom by then were gravely disappointed with me. I had alienated myself from my own people —from those nearest and dearest to me. I was a thief in my own house.
    As I grew into my late teens, the